Journal
by PixelWaste
Summary: Had you not known the identity of the one who wrote the journal you hold between your hands, you would say it was tremendously old...
1. Journal

**Journal**

**I**

Had you not known the identity of the one who wrote the journal you hold between your hands, you would say it was tremendously old.

You rest the weighty book on the large mahogany table in front of you, dust flying around as wood and leather collided. The pale moon elf who gave it to you said nothing, just sat on his chair, giving out the illusion of being older than this world, to then rest his head on one of his hands, tired…

… And… sad…

You shift your eyes from the thin figure to the journal again; this was certainly not the time to worry for the emotional state of an old Elf. Even if he was important for your mission, this book was now more.

The cover hits the wood as you open the journal. No introduction, not even, at least, the first page left blank… This woman was direct, and cares not for the image others have of her, you notice. The Common in which the first entry is written is vulgar and untrained – much likely taught when she was in the swamp that is West Harbour, which meant she was modestly educated – but it expressed vigour, and strangely, as you scan some words, you notice that her vocabulary is quite rich for a Harbourman. Some ink was lost, but the words are clear.

Curiously, she started it with the sentence 'Boring grey', instead of stating the day in which that happened. It gave you one more reason to keep reading…

Not that you needed more, mind…me… This was the journal of the missing Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep, the Kalach-Cha, the Skinny Lass Who Killed Those Lizardmen And All, the Lost Child…, blessed (or cursed) with a Warlock's fortune, who – to make things more complicated - was named Shar Aylomen…

* * *

This is, I hope, the only time I will write an 'Author Notes' like this one. I just felt I had to make a small introduction. 

I am Portuguese. Therefore, you might find some weird stuff shaped in words on the story. So please, tell me of anything wrong you might find. I will only learn that way (the slang is especially difficult, so be hard on me).

Now for the story… I like writing with a very personal third person, so you may notice differences in subsequent chapters. I will put three chapters as fast as it is possible for me (vroom!) so you can have a taste of what you will find here. The first type, the 'you chapters' – that is not really you (ORLY?), it was just a small challenge to my writing skills – will appear few times. The 'journal entries' will always have after a 'break chapter' (the biggest and most interesting/humorous/anythingelseawesome) who may or not be followed by similar chapters. Do not worry, this story will not be big(Yaaay); I just wanted to show you some of my characters' actions on the game, and some things created by me, so that you may understand the real story (that happens after the KoS battle and will be written once this one's over).


	2. Boring Grey

**Boring grey**

"I have finally arrived to Neverwinter.

If the whole city is like this, or just the docks, I do not know. But West Harbour shows more life than this place.

With a barbarian Dwarf aspiring to be a monk, a Tiefling rogue that has problems with her heritage, a stalker Wood Elf and a Drow I have met yesterday on a boat I loved to sail in the short time I was there, I headed towards the tavern Daeghun told me to go. I now live in said tavern while I am in this Tyrran city.

Everyone inside was different from the calm, tedious people of the streets of Neverwinter. There were not many people there, thought, so it did not improve my first impression of this city.

The shards – mine and Duncan's - were again analyzed, and even thought the results were very different, the answers obtained to the many questions the silver pieces brought were scarce. Alas, with no other option, I have to get inside a closed district to talk to another guy about the shards. And in order to do that I must join one of two groups that patrol the city, their intentions contrasting clearly. In the Watch I would be too exposed (do-gooders and heroes shine even in the darkest of places, as fireflies between simple ones), but joining a famous gang, even with less publicity, could get me in very official trouble if something goes wrong.

Tomorrow I will have to tell my companions that I hate being exposed."


	3. Of the Threatening, Inoffensive Clouds

**Of the Threatening, Inoffensive Clouds.**

"… I know that, being what I am, I can't really judge people for how they look. And I won't really do that, but…" The red-haired Tiefling leaned closer as she moved her crimson eyes towards an ebony figure playing a lute, her voice a whisper. "… aren't Elves – all Elves - supposed to have neat, excellently combed hair? Like something that comes with the package: pointy ears, lots of years to live, tidy hair, no sleeping… "

Shar suck up all the warmth provided by the nearby fire deep into the bones of her skinny, always cold self. A pale-skinned, calloused hand held a mug of ale the Human female wasn't paying much attention to, while the other toyed with a braid of her, boyishly short, jet-black hair, cut in a rather random fashion.

Her eyes followed the rogue's, the right one an icy blue, with specks of silver in its centre, while the left was coloured with a uniform, warm chocolate tone. They usually never stared right into you.

A smirk deformed her full lips then, filling her face of firm, proud looking features with an amused look.

But even with all that she didn't had the kind of beauty bards would praise in taverns all over Faêrun once they met her, or Elves would compare to their own under same circumstances. Her body was small, thin, small breasts and no curves. She could almost be mistaken by a man when she wore chain mail. Just a simple Harborman with pretty eyes and androgynous looks, the least noticed in the group she travelled with until you smelled her origins… or heard her name.

You never saw her complaining.

"And then we have Elanee." The Human's voice was low, distant and slightly coarse, with no particular emotion attached. It showed her genuine lack of interest in the matter being discussed.

"Elanee's hair is not that bad… for a tree-worshiper. I mean, I have seen worse, but she could brush it sometimes… And well, his hair is… it… could be better…"

"Mmh…"

"Heh… on the sea you probably can't care much for such a long hair."

"Mmh…"

"… Yeah…"

It came for the good of both women – Neeshka was a good companion, but had to understand that silence is not a bad thing, and she didn't have to be always talking when they were together - ; some of the Double Eagle's crew entered the Sunken Flagon at that moment, gaining some curious, evanescent looks, a smile and some greetings from Duncan when one of them asked for five mugs of ale – ah, money with legs! - , a growl from Qara – fat, lazy walking kegs of cheap ale… - and Shar's complete attention. Yet their eyes were on the Drow playing the lute.

"I still can't believe you're gonna leave us for that - Oh hi, Aylomen – that…" Started one of the men, the tallest of the group that surrounded the male Drow, smelling strongly of sea and sweat.

"That bitch? –No offence Aylomen." Suggested one.

"That Human?" Suggested a handsome Half-Orc – or as handsome as one can be to Human eyes.

"That Harborman?" A third interrupted.

"That… female…" He finally decided.

"How very original." Stated the smirking Warlock.

"Fuck you, Aylomen." But he smiled to Shar. To then kneel in front of the Drow with fake dramatist – and still being taller – while hugging the obsidian-coloured man's lower legs and mockingly pleading with puppy green eyes.

"Aw, c'mon Khâl…" He pouted… "Don't leave us… If it's for the fucks I can…uh… well I can suck ya off, and that's better be enough!" … but soon started scowling.

Khâl stopped playing and rested the lute on the nearby table. He had pearly white hair that reached his thighs and, unlike many Drowish manes, it fell in deep waves and in some rare curls. Blood red eyes called all the attention in his face, too feminine for an Elf. And the elegant body didn't help; it was fit for a quick fighter, but still with the lack of muscle common in the Elfish race.

Black, long fingers held the sailor's face up, crimson meeting green, childish innocent naughtiness versus an almost non-existing pleading. Lips moved towards lips.

Breaths were caught all around them.

Closer and closer…

So closer...

"No." Sweet, childish voice for a creature feared – or just hated – all over Faêrun for his blood.

"Why not?"

"Because you don't make me horny. And I won't go puttin' my dick in you guys' mouth as payment for workin' on Double Eagle" It was clear where Khâl was learning his Common.

"Well, it's a wet hole. In the sea there are few where you can stick your cock in, so if ya don't mind me takin' that generous offer instead…" The fifth member, and the oldest, ended with a chuckle that was shared by most of the crew present.

The tall guy rose to all his splendorous height, and started poking the chest of a bemused old guy, both provoking, threatening, with only their eyes. "First, ya ain't leaving da ship. Second, if ya did, I would volunteer to kick yer ass off it in the first port I had the chance to – if ya had that luck."

"Now, now men." Duncan started, managing to hold the five mugs of ale in his two hands. "There's no need for trouble, eh? Your friend will be in good hands with my niece."

"Oh, very good hands…" The sailors chuckled to each others.

"Hei, watch your tongue. Just because you can almost reach the ceiling with no help doesn-"

"You have lot of trophies, sir." The Drow started – he may look childish, but he was not stupid; the conversation was not going to end in a not destroyed tavern as far as he was concerned.

Duncan's ego didn't fit in his apron. "Well now, I have one or two interesting stories about those. Just – Shar, go fill a mug for that idiot, please. Now, I too had my share of…"

She stopped paying attention as she walked away; no, there weren't many people there so yes, the voice that Duncan projected could be heard loud and clear.

And as she made her way through tables and the occasional drunk guy, ale in hand, her bicoloured eyes were on the flesh of the guy who was too the future drinker of the alcoholic drink she held.

Amber eyes stared back, gaining an even more predatory feeling to them with that shadow around them – soot, kohl, bad nights? – and she shamelessly examined the rest with a quick up and down look. Reddish brown short locks, facial hair in the right amount to just slightly shadow his jaw, large shoulders, stronger muscles than hers, roughly of the same height as her... A scar in his right cheek. Yes, she was close enough. With no ceremonies, she handed the object that carried ale to the amber-eyed male.

He did the same movement with his ocular orbs, maybe out of habit, maybe because she had done it in the first place, and as he took the mug held out for him, he smirked.

"Stick around. A few more of these and you'll start looking good to me. Though…" Again, same eye movement. "… It will be a hard accomplishment, so… " He took a large gulp, sighed in satisfaction, and nodded towards the kitchen. "Go get another."

She calmly smirked, her natural proud expression intensifying and even more provoking. As if she would let him touch her in any way she didn't consent. He was most likely already drunk.

"Only unconscious would I let you near me, seeing that I would not actually have any way to fight back." Shar answered, her matchless voice for his ears alone. He shrugged, apparently unaffected and drank again.

"I'm not picky; I don't mind."

"I do."

"You won't."

"As if."

"As if what, woman?" The man seemed to be losing his temper too quickly; probably an effect of the exaggerated consume of alcohol. Then again, the fact that he couldn't finish that sentence by himself showed that too. That or, he isn't very smart.

"As if you could actually rouse any desire in me by forcing into my unconscious body." She explained, detail by detail, delighted in his lack of patience. He took his time answering.

"… Want to try me?"

"I thought you had to be completely inebriated to be able to touch me."

"Well, you also had to be unconscious, but that's easier to arrange, I'm almost sure. Now…" Another nod to the kitchen, as if he didn't do it in the beginning of their discussion. "Start marching, pretty eyes. Bring two…"

She closed the said orbs, only to open them again, feral as a panther's and she deeply stared into the wolfish pair…

… This would be interesting…

* * *

The kick that started it all.

It was her doing.

Had she even thought something like this would happen?

No.

Even now she was astonished by how such an action – yes, rather dramatic, but to reach these proportions… - could make everything this chaotic.

Shar reviewed each one of her actions, each one of the events that occurred all around her, and started by the trigger.

The kick that started it all.

It was her doing.

As Bishop – curious name – took the mug again to his lips, she kicked it – a really well performed front kick taught by Neeshka - , filling him with the ale and the bits of broken mug that didn't fall at his feet. The amber-eyed male stared at the mess near his boots, on his boots and his leathers for a second or two, feeling the eyes of many, if not all, people in them. The movement of her thin leg – the leg of the kick that started it all - as it swung back into a defensive position woke him from his trance.

The dark haired female moved her head to the side, the same look on her face.

"I am still not unconscious and you are incapable of becoming drunker at the moment." She parted her full, doll-like lips in an obvious provocation – even for a half-intoxicated man. "Not making progresses, are we?"

He smirked; clearly her attitude fascinated him, but he wouldn't succumb to her wishes. The brown haired male sniffled before speaking.

"Well now, let's see how long you can stand on your two feet, then."

"Huh?" Intelligently stated a drunken Khelgar, finally awaking from his inebriated meditation. Obviously, he didn't understand the situation, and interpreted the predatory stance Bishop always had and Shar's aggressive stand in the wrong way.

"Dun' worry lass!" The Dwarf started, rising to his feet and amazingly maintained his balance – while screaming his famous scream – as he ran towards Bishop.

Ruled by the Law of the Nature, both the unprepared body and the tackling one fell to the ground when collision was imminent.

"Ugh, stupid Dwarf!" Bishop spat, trying to get Khelgar's screaming and punching body from the top of him, his blood still with too much alcohol to remember that he had weapons with him.

Despite that, he punched.

Bad idea.

Encouraged by the response to his attacks, Khelgar just fought harder. Resistance was futile.

Shar stood back, studying the situation in order to stop it – would an Eldritch Blast separate them or just… roll them to a corner? - . And yes because she also didn't had the strength to stop them. While she did that others got closer, cheering for the fight. Between the exceptions was Duncan, who was trying to separate them already. Oh well, at least someone did something…

"Stop that, you two stupid drunks!" The Warlock heard the Sorcerer shout, hands on her hips as she tried to look threatening. And failed in Shar's opinion. _And_ she wasn't the only one with that opinion.

Soon enough the second trigger flew.

A half-full mug of ale crashed in the back of Qara's head. Unfortunately, the fury held any body from falling, as the Law of Nature stated (or not…).

"Who did it?!" The red head growled between her bared teeth as she spun her head around, magical flames rising around her, her hands as if potent torches.

Now she looked threatening.

Without a second thought, Shar called her own inner magic.

It was a small thing, but it was still a great show for inexperienced eyes. The blood vessels present on her body glowed strongly with the change of the liquid they held, and gave all the body a faint purple aura; the air around her seemed thicker, harder to breathe…

She hissed an Infernal-like dialect, moved her arms with silky movements, looking quick but surely taking their time, and finally shot an Eldritch Blast, knocking Qara against a table, crashing it down and taking her to the hard floor below.

Well, the Sorcerer didn't start a fire… directly.

The candles on top of said table followed the redhead to the ground, setting on fire all the wood surrounding it, but not the woman, who got up quickly. Excused is to say that no one had the time to be scared shitless by Aylomen's actions…

In the end, it was just a small fire, only reaching the centre of the inn due to a quick reaction of Elanee, Neeshka, Duncan and two of the sailors.

Still, everyone was out of the building just in case. That attracted even more attention… With the screams and such…

"This is your entire fault!" Shouted a fuming Duncan, with his jaw clenched tight as he walked out of the building, soft clouds of smoke following. His words were clear as the water from the swamp Shar grew up with.

"What?!" The redhead stated incredulous, eyes widened in surprise. "It was _your_ niece who attacked me in the first place!"

"Yeah, trying to save my inn from an even bigger disaster: your _madness_!"

"Then tell your drunken buddies _not_ to smash their precious life source on my head!"

"What happened?" Asked a voice behind the duo-coloured eyed woman. It was a nasal voice, supercilious by nature, that surely caught the most attention out of screams, questions, whispers, laughs…? … that surrounded the jet-black haired Warlock. She associated the voice to the elegant face lightly hurt by time even before she turned to look.

Sand. Even thought Aylomen could have never associated the voice and the face to the name in such a short time – it took her always an obscene amount of time to memorize people's names – she recognized the man immediately. Missing around ten centimetres to be as tall as her, long, straight black hair and deep pale blue eyes completed the basic description.

"Fire." She answered, moving her eyes again to Duncan and Qara.

"Oh yes, a disaster. You should not worry; it is quite common in your uncle's establishment. Did someone get hurt?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, but Duncan surely does not seem satisfied by that. And keeps screaming at the Sorceress… Was it her doing?"

"… Yes."

"… Your monosyllabic answers are shortening the usual length of my speech, dear girl."

Smirk.

Chuckle. "Well then, the situation seems to be in control. I think I wi-"

Khâl arrived, panting as he impolitely stepped between the two. Shar seemed unaffected by such act, and Sand… well, he was still a bit shocked by the sight of a Drow – if the Wizard wasn't so worried with the many ways he could use to insult Duncan that afternoon, he would have noticed him earlier.

"Can I go help guys of ship with the things to take to the ship?" He asked, red eyes almost twinkling with hope, but no source of light nearby could give him such effect. Sand winced at the rape of Common and the perversion of the pronunciation just performed.

It was the middle of the night in the Neverwinter Docks, with Moire's gang gaining more influence and the Watch starting to get even more corrupted. Bandits were probably nearby, abusing of the attention given to the accident. All kinds of other 'accidents' happened in the dim light, including children.

"Okay."

Smiling, he ran off.

Sand blinked once, twice, thrice, and finally stated.

"Strange." Pause. "I will leave now to rest. Have a good night. Or…"

"Your mom, you drunken Half-Breed!"

"… As good as you can get." And he left, yawning discreetly behind his hand.

And just when two males were out of the way, the Accomplice appeared.

The name associated to the pair of amber eyes that stared at her intensely?

… She was _sure_ it had something to do with priests…

"I was surprised to see a bag of bones like yourself give a kick like that." He stated, the hint of a smirk hidden in his voice but never reaching his eyes or distorting his lips.

And the voice of the Warlock, coarser now as it was compared to the hissing words that escaped in her invocation, came. "How many women have you underestimated?"

"The ones I have not slept with."

"You pay for what you deserve."

"Sharp tongue you have, woman." Nonetheless, he seemed amused. Even if not as drunk (the sudden fire and the almost as sudden punches may have something to do with it). "Well now, seems that I should pay less then… Starting for free maybe…?"

"Good night… male." It would all sound much cooler if she remembered the name of the reddish brown haired man. In fact, he understood that and actually laughed as she left, but she seemed not to care. And much likely didn't (the smirk on her lips probably told that she too agreed with his humour theme), since she was walking through the crowd, passing between Qara and Duncan's forms, ignoring everything she wasn't stepping on and everyone she wasn't walking against (or stepping on) until she reached the Sunken Flagon's open door. Not stopping, she entered the building, closed the door behind her, went to her room, undressed, went to bed and fell asleep.


End file.
